Journey of the Heart

Most of my poems are written as consolations to myself when I find myself in a sad or lost space... But somehow by taking action and recording the words, they become an act of courage, a line of connection, where it's no longer about me. That gives me – my voice –strength. And the piece becomes something powerful, an offering of hope, a showing of way – not just for myself. Art is an experience of profound communion if you have the wits to see that it's not you who bestows inspiration. To make art is to grow wings. To give meaning to live beyond mere survival. Though fighting for survival may be that which grows our heart muscle to be able to find that there is more to life than what the eyes can see. Photography by Catherine L. Schweig Thousand Year Old Oak Trees (Volume I)  by Romana Anna Nova Can a seed ever be sad When it's been blown off far into the desert? I think not Because it remembers The mighty woods it came from It knows t...

Trees and I have had a love affair from the time I was a kid... They are my friends. And when a friend is decimated while you remain a mute spectator, no torrents of tears can wash off the guilt-stricken grief. But, after two days of fuming anguish, healing came in an unexpected mizzle of grace!! The Green Woman* by Shernaz Wadia sharp cracks as they tore your limbs asunder thwack, thwack, thwack as you were mutilated axed bits and pieces of you visual shrieks, as they became the jerry-rigged shroud vainly cloaking your naked vulnerability   each assault on you a hammer blow on my heart petrified with pain and anger I chose silence and became   the more sinful partner in the crime that brought about   your excruciating end. Woe is me! Would that I were not so cowardly!   Though the aftermath was a macabre hush I now feel your spirit floating with feathery non-chalance in a spiral of love it wafts in with the tinglin...